


Wisdom Is Better Than Strength

by quercus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-01
Updated: 1999-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:05:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ontology of Scully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisdom Is Better Than Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Geoffrey, in appreciation.

As a pathologist, I am accustomed to death. As a cancer survivor, I understand death. As a law enforcement officer, I am sometimes responsible for death. Yet none of my background, no one's background, can prepare for unnecessary and violent death.

Skinner has loaned Mulder and me out to VCU, the Violent Crimes Unit of the FBI. Mulder is a brilliant profiler, an astute psychologist who seem to possess the unenviable ability to get inside the mind of serial killers. He can also get inside the mind of their victims. He left VCU before he burnt out, something I understand frequently occurs, but at least once a year, they request his assistance.

I dislike these assignments. I am not a trained profiler, nor do I wish to be. Working with Mulder, I believe I have developed some useful skills, but to be confronted not simply with the death of a person but with the certain knowledge that another person will shortly die if we don't act in time -- no human should bear that burden. My friend Mulder, a decent man, feels obligated to bear it, but I see how it wears on him.

I'm watching him now as he works. It's late at night; we're in the field office in Indianapolis. The air conditioning is set too low and I have to wear a sweater even though it's the middle of a hot and humid midwestern summer. No one else is around right now, although I know other agents are in the building. Mulder sits at a long table, drawing up lists. I sit in a battered sofa, brought here who knows when or how, and watch my friend.

I love Mulder. Or perhaps not. My love for him is not a type I can classify. We're not lovers, although at times I have considered the possibility. He's not old enough to be a surrogate father. A brother, I think; he's like a brother, although certainly not like either one of my brothers. Perhaps some other culture has a name for our relationship, but I don't believe that western civilization does. I think of him as a brother of my heart. Sometimes he breaks my heart.

He's wearing his glasses. He is quite handsome in them; they give him a scholarly look. He is a scholar, too; a scholar of minds and behavior. He believes that truth exists, that it can be sought and successfully found, and that it should be sought. I don't entirely agree with him. I believe that all truths are relative; that we each create our own truth. I don't disagree with him about the necessity of searching for truth, although I think we aren't looking for truth; rather, we are creating it. I am watching Mulder create the truth about the serial killer we are hunting.

We have been in Indianapolis for six weeks. As usual, the local police didn't realize a serial killer was working the area. Time and a critical mass of death do that. Once the third body of a local college student had been founded, raped, bludgeoned, and burnt, the police became suspicious. They started questioning other police departments and found five more similar deaths. At that point, they requested assistance from the FBI.

The FBI doesn't catch criminals. We assist the local police. Oftentimes, the local pd resents having to ask for assistance; sometimes, the FBI agents can be less than sensitive to that resentment. I gather the first profiling team sent here made some mistakes, both in creating the profile and in their professional treatment of the pd. Our superior officer, AD Skinner, alluded to this when he made the assignment. One doesn't, however, speak ill of a brother special agent, so we were left to piece together the story ourselves.

It was an unpleasant situation. The local police were angry at the FBI, although relieved that the original team had been replaced. They were less than forthcoming with us, at least initially, and tended to keep their distance. Mulder can be obsessive and compulsive, he can be narcissistic and paranoid, but he is also capable of great empathy and consideration. He understood the feelings of the police, probably because many in the FBI treat him with disdain, even contempt. He exhibited a charming, cooperative persona that helped ease relations between our agencies. I was impressed and proud of him. I was also a little jealous; why couldn't he show that side of himself more often, at least to me? But I've already answered my question; we are a kind of family. He doesn't need to.

The problems with the original FBI team meant, obviously, that more time had elapsed, and that the UNSUB would be closer to a triggering stresser that would cause him to kill again. Yes, I can say "he" with confidence, and not simply because semen was discovered in the victims' vaginal canals. Almost without exception, serial killers are male. They are almost always white, too. This factoid bothers me. I've asked Mulder why he thinks serial killers are usually white men. He tells me he believes it's part of western culture, something that European males absorb as they mature. He looked very sad as he told me that, but it certainly makes the profile easy to start: White male between the ages of . . .

Of the five murder victims found outside Indianapolis, Mulder decided four were killed by the same man who killed the three in the city. He told us that the man was in his mid- to late-thirties, was a salesman who had trouble keeping jobs, lived with either his mother or an older sister, had several girlfriends but none serious, and tended to wear double-breasted suits. Buttoned. I liked the last detail.

So the police, with our assistance, were looking for salesmen. But Indianapolis is a large and prosperous city; there are many salesmen. We need to narrow the population down significantly. Thus Mulder was reading and re-reading the case files, reviewing the crime scene photographs, and studying the autopsy reports.

I sip a diet Pepsi and watch my friend work. I'm worried about him. In fact, I'm very worried about him. The heat, the work, the hours, and the pressure on him is wearing him out. I can almost see the weight melt off his bones. Always lanky, he's now too thin. He's suffering from anorexia -- he can't eat. I'm not sure when he last slept. I've threatened to drug him, but he looks at me with his handsome hazel eyes and reminds me that people's lives depend on him finding the killer. He doesn't have time to sleep, he says. I've stopped arguing with him.

As I watch him, he rubs his face with his hands, nearly dislodging his glasses. I can see the skull beneath his skin. Even his hands look bony. My heart hurts for him. Mulder barely escaped a horrific childhood and adolescence; I don't believe he has many emotional or spiritual reserves. I'm afraid for my partner's health and well-being.

He puts his head on the table. Perhaps he'll sleep now. But I realize his shoulders are moving. Tears fill my eyes in sympathy; he's crying. He's so tired and so afraid that another young woman, someone's sister, will be brutally murdered before he can finish his job.

Seeing his shaking shoulders decides me. I'm going to put a stop to this. I'm sorry for the victims and their families, but destroying Mulder will neither save them nor bring them back from the dead. This has gone on long enough.

I know Mulder well enough that I do not approach him or attempt to comfort him as he cries. After only a few moments, he wipes his face and sits up, sniffing, and beginning at the beginning, reads the reports yet again. He will pretend that I didn't see, and I will conspire with him in the pretense. I would do anything for Mulder.

After some minutes have passed, I get up, as if to discard my empty can of pop and to stretch. I tell Mulder that I'll be right back. He nods absently, never lifting his eyes from the page. He'll assume I'm going to the ladies room. Instead, I go to an empty office and call AD Skinner at home.

He takes a while to answer, and sounds half asleep. I identify myself and he's instantly awake. I think I can hear apprehension, possibly fear, in his voice. He wants to know if Mulder is all right. I tell him no. He inhales sharply, but says nothing. I explain to him what's happening and describe my fears for Mulder. I tell him that he's responsible for his agents and that he must pull Mulder off this case immediately. I remind him that I am not just a pathologist, but Mulder's physician of record. I know I can force the issue, but I leave him time to respond.

He points out that very likely Mulder will not wish to leave. I point out that he is our superior officer and that his orders are to be obeyed. He's silent for a moment, digesting that; we've disobeyed him so often, I can understand that the notion might boggle him. We sit in silence, almost a thousand miles apart, thinking about Mulder. Mulder binds us.

For many years I didn't like or trust my boss. I believed he was dirty. I know that isn't true, or at least isn't isn't true anymore; I still have some suspicions about what's happened in the past. But I've come to respect and like him. Mulder and I were for some months removed from his division and, during the time that we worked under a different assistant director, I discovered how much I appreciated his ways. He always treated us with respect, unlike the other AD. Even when he was angry with us, and he was often angry with us, he was restrained and kind. Returning to his division was a kind of homecoming for me, and especially for Mulder.

Finally, Skinner says he will make the necessary arrangement for a new profiling team to be sent to Indianapolis. We should be able to leave in only a day or two. I ask him whether he will need to tell Mulder why he's being pulled off the case. He reminds me that it is standard operating procedure to alternate profilers, so that no one suffers psychological injury from working with the horrors of serial killers. In other words, he won't tell Mulder that I've requested this. I smile grimly and thank him.

I start to say goodbye, but he interrupts me to ask how I am. I pause, unsure of the answer. I'm underslept almost as much as Mulder, although I have been drinking plenty of fluids. Eating is difficult under these circumstances. But I think Skinner means something else; I think he means psychologically. And I'm not sure of the answer.

If I were younger or had more feminine wiles, I think I would begin crying at this point. Because I do feel sorry, for myself and for Mulder. But I've trained myself not to exhibit emotion, so I do not. At last I sigh and say, "I'm fine, sir." He doesn't respond, so I say goodbye again. This time he lets me go.

As I walk back to Mulder, I feel guilty, as if I've betrayed him. Perhaps I have. But I tell myself it's for a greater good; it's for him. My friend and brother. I open the door and again watch him, obsessively reading the terrible descriptions of these women's terrible deaths. I know him, better than I know myself in some ways. I know what this knowledge is doing to him. He is eating from the tree of knowledge and it is poisoning him. I refuse to watch him poison himself out of his desire to assist others. I have betrayed him, yes, and I'll betray him again. To save him. To keep him safe.

* * *

Mulder is angry with Skinner. He feels humiliated, as if he'd been pulled off the case because he's failed. I suppose in a way that's true; if he'd developed a more complete profile earlier, the police might have caught the killer earlier, and we might be going home in triumph. But Mulder is the best. If he didn't develop a more complete profile, it's because the information hasn't been collected that will let him do so. He can and does make brilliant leaps of intuition, but he is not a magician. He is a conscientious and thoughtful psychologist with a great deal of experience. Sometimes that isn't enough. There is no shame in not enough.

To my dismay, he doesn't complain on the flight back to DC. He is too exhausted. This distresses me. His voice is a pleasant tenor, so even in complaint it's attractive to listen to. He has a slight New England accent left over from his youth; I enjoy listening for the flattened vowels and dropped postvocalic "r"s. He doesn't quite say "pahk ya cah" for "park your car," but there's some New England left in him. I find it charming. When I don't want to listen to what he says, I listen to how he says it. I'm sure I appear quite attentive. But on this trip, he is silent.

I see again how pale and thin he is. His suit hangs from him. He finally falls asleep, stretched uncomfortably into the aisle. I take the opportunity to hold his hand. I can feel the tendons and bones. He seems fragile, delicate. An adult male over six feet tall should not feel delicate, especially not to a woman my build. I try to imagine how I can get him to see a doctor, or at least to let me examine him. I begin to worry even more.

As we near DC, I begin to feel more distressed, almost frantic. He is so quiet, so still. Where is my friend who can discuss the most arcane topics, make amusing puns, spin tales of conspiracy? Who is this ghost sleeping beside me?

He awakes only when the steward asks him to put his seatback up in preparation for landing. I'm still holding his hand; he looks surprised and pulls away. My feelings are hurt. This is quite irrational; I often refuse to let him comfort me. Nonetheless.

We'd met at the airport, so he walks me to my car and I drive him to his. We say goodbye. We rarely hug, and I don't believe I've ever shaken his hand, so he just walks away. I sit in my car for a moment, letting the engine idle, and wait to see if his will start. He looks through his windshield at me and nods; I drive away. I leave my friend behind.

At home that night, I find myself pacing the floor. I feel as though something terrible has happened, but I can't think what. I tell myself this is just a reaction to the exhaustion of the past few weeks, but I simply don't believe that. Something is wrong. Something is wrong with Mulder.

Finally, I call him. His phone rings three times and then his voicemail kicks in. I miss answering machines, when you could say: pick up, it's me. I hang up without leaving a message, grab my car keys, and drive to his apartment. It's almost eleven at night.

There are no lights on in his apartment that I can see from the street. Not even the blue light of the television. I almost run up the stairs and try not to pound on his door; I don't want to wake his neighbors. When he doesn't answer, I whisper his name and knock again. Then I use my key.

He's lying on his couch, in the same clothes he'd worn on the plane, right arm crooked over his face. I whisper his name again; he doesn't respond. I come nearer and explain that I'm going to take his pulse. He never moves. His left hand lies on his stomach; I gently take it, then feel for the pulse. It's racing. His hands are very cold, and damp. I believe he's in shock.

My first impulse is to fall to my knees and say a Hail Mary for him. My heart is knocking in my chest in fear and an excess of love. This is why doctors should never treat family or friends. I take a deep breath and call nine-one-one. Then I call Skinner. Then I find blankets and pile them on top of him. I talk to him incessantly, I babble about my feelings for him, my guilt, my fears. I beg him to answer me, to look at me. I sit on the floor next to the couch and rest my head against his hip bone; it juts out sharply under his jeans. Finally, I begin to pray.

Mulder is, I know, uncomfortable with my return to my faith. I don't hide my Catholicism from him, but neither do I force it on him. However, at that moment, I call on God to help me and to help him. I beg Him to remember that Mulder is a good and decent man who has suffered much. I ask Him to give Mulder the strength to survive whatever is happening to him. Then I say the Hail Mary again and again, until the ambulance arrives.

Skinner is waiting at the hospital. I have lost all my physician's objectivity at that point and am simply in the way. I am shaking, literally shaking, in my fear. I run to Skinner as if to my father, whom I miss bitterly at that moment. He embraces me, rubs my back, and tells me, there, there. I still am not crying, but I can't seem to stop shaking. I'm afraid that I'm going into shock myself.

Skinner walks me up and down the hall outside the room where Mulder is being treated. I know they have inserted an IV for a saline drip, and that heated blankets have been placed on him. I know he is in good hands. I know that physically he will recover.

We walk and walk. When I can talk past the lump in my throat, I tell Skinner this was my fault; that I'd seen this coming but hadn't acted in time. I should have called you sooner, I tell him again and again; I don't understand why it was so hard to call you. If anything happens to Mulder, it's my fault. I should be punished; I want God to punish me.

When I say this, Skinner stops walking and turns me to face him. Both his hands are on my arms and he shakes me gently. I finally see that his face is twisted in pain, his mouth clenched. He tells me that he is the supervisor and that it is his responsibility to ensure the welfare of his subordinates. He tells me that, if it's anybody's fault, it's his. He tells me that he will never again loan Mulder to VCU; that he knows now Mulder no longer has the stamina needed for that work. He has been through so much, Skinner tells me, shaking me again; he has been through too much. If God punishes anyone, he says, He must punish me.

I look at Skinner as if for the first time in my life. I see a tall handsome balding man who has seen many things, done many things, and yet has remained honorable. I can see the concern and fear in his face. Behind his glasses, I can see dark brown eyes full of powerful emotions. I can see love.

In that epiphanal moment, I realize that Skinner loves Mulder. I don't yet know the nature of that love, for there are many kinds, but I realize that we share that bond: we love Mulder. I feel akin to Skinner as I never have before. We stand in the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital corridor and stare at each other, joined in our fear and love. My heart begins to slow; it's as if by realizing that another human being cares for Mulder as much as I do, I can share the burden of my anxiety. Of my terror. I step closer to Skinner, and put my arms around his waist, resting my head on his chest. He slides his hands around my back, slowly tightening them. I feel protected.

Someone comes out of Mulder's room and asks if I'm next of kin. I nod, unable and unwilling to explain our relationship any further. He tells me that I may see my husband now, but only for a moment. He looks curiously at Skinner, who still has his hands on my shoulders; I explain that this is my husband's brother and ask if he may come with me. He nods, and warns us to stay only a moment.

Skinner sighs heavily when he sees Mulder, and I realize how terrible he looks. I feel so guilty; why didn't I realize how ill he was? What kind of doctor am I? I'm fit only for pathology, where I can no longer do harm. I am deeply ashamed, and embarrassed that Skinner will know what a poor physician and friend I have been.

Skinner approaches the bed almost shyly, looking down at Mulder. He slowly puts his hand on Mulder's arm, tucked under the warming blanket. Mulder stirs but doesn't open his eyes. I'm sorry, Skinner whispers to him, and at last I start to cry. My behavior has injured not only Mulder but Skinner as well. I am so ashamed. My father would be so ashamed of me. I leave the room and stand outside, tears running down my face.

After a few minutes, Skinner comes to me and, taking my hand, walks me once again down the hallway, this time to the waiting room. We sit in the uncomfortable chairs. After a moment, he puts his arm around me and I lean against him. I have to blow my nose, but I'm too tired to move, so I just sniff regularly. Finally, he laughs and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me. I wipe my nose and am able to laugh a little, too. Then I lean back against him. We watch as the night thins to day. We wait.

In the morning, a new doctor comes looking for us. We permit him to continue to believe that Mulder is my husband and Skinner my brother-in-law. It's easier that way, and we can both go in to see him. He is conscious and out of shock; his color his good. But he is so thin. Again, I feel washed by guilt.

Skinner surprises me, and perhaps Mulder, by taking his hand. He speaks softly to him, about the excellent profile he developed in Indianapolis and how sorry Skinner is that he left him there so long, under such stressful conditions, that he's worn himself out. This is my fault, he tells Mulder firmly; please forgive me.

I can see that Mulder is puzzled by this, but also flattered. I'm flattered, too, because Skinner sounds very sincere. I think he is sincere. His remorse is obvious, as is his concern for Mulder. They hold hands the entire time we're permitted in the room. I kiss Mulder before I go.

The young doctor is waiting for us. He recommends psychological treatment for Mulder as well as medical assistance. He insists that a nutritionist work with us, and I agree. I would agree to anything. He schedules appointments for the psychologist and the nutritionist; I am to be present. I ask for Skinner to be there as well. The doctor looks puzzled at this; I explain to him that the brothers are very close. He nods.

We return to the waiting room. Skinner brings coffee and a package of Hostess Twinkies. I actually can't recall the last time I had a Twinkie, so I eat it with almost scientific curiosity. Rather a waxy texture.

We wait. That's what people do in hospital waiting rooms: they wait. For answers, for hope, for death. We silently watch others come and go. Some weep. The day moves on. In the early afternoon, the psychologist comes. She's an older German lady; I pray she isn't a Freudian. Mulder will eat her alive. Then I realize that the old Mulder would; I'm not sure about the exhausted man I returned from Indiana with.

We, Skinner and I, tell her the truth about our relationship with Mulder. Well, the most superficial version of the truth: that we are supervisor and partner. She listens carefully; I wonder how good her English skills are. She rises and goes to Mulder's room without excusing herself; Skinner and I look at each other, then settle back in the uncomfortable chairs.

Perhaps forty minutes later, the doctor returns to us, and instructs us to follow her. She takes us to a handsomely-decorated room with a small desk and three chairs. I recognize this room; there are many in hospitals. This is where doctors give families bad news. We sit and stare at her expectantly.

She asks us again who we are to Mulder. For a moment, neither of us answers. To my extreme distress, Skinner begins to cry soundlessly. The tears run down his face; his glasses steam; his nose runs. The only noise is the air conditioning, humming from a vent above us. I look away from him, as if he were nude. Tears fill my own eyes. Comprehension comes slowly to me. I feel even more stupid, even more ashamed. I feel undone by this knowledge.

The old lady takes Skinner's hand and asks him if Mulder knows. He shakes his head. He says, I cannot speak those words because afterwards I could not unspeak them. He says, I'm afraid to tell him. He says, Please don't tell him.

Tears fall from my eyes. I feel as though I will never cease weeping. I weep for Mulder, I weep for Skinner, I weep for myself. The doctor asks me what my relationship to Mulder is. I must swallow several times before I can speak. I say, He is my brother. I am his sister. I am his mother.

Skinner puts his hands on my shoulders again. I turn to face him. I don't know this person before me. I never knew him. I have been wrong for so long that the truth blinds me. I remember my argument with Mulder; that there is no external truth, that we create our own truths. I realize how wrong I have been. I created a version of the truth that prohibited me from seeing the world around me, that prohibited me from seeing who these people are, who they are to me, to each other. My truth was a lie I created in order to blind myself.

The doctor watches us from behind her glasses. She nods her head twice, as if making up her mind about something. She says to Skinner, You must tell him. He needs the truth as he needs air. She says to me, You must tell him. He needs the truth as he needs water. She watches us.

I hang my head in confusion. What am I to tell Mulder? He must know by now that I love him. But I've never told him. He's told me, in words and in actions, but I've always withheld the strength of my feelings from him. I understand that by doing so I have placed myself in a position of power over him. That I have been unfair and unkind. I rise.

Skinner remains seated. I wait for him. I can see him deciding what to do. He wipes his face and takes a deep breath, then rises, too. He takes my hand and we return again to the corridor where Mulder waits. At his door, we pause. Should I send Skinner in first? But he tugs on my hand and we enter together.

Mulder is still lying down, still with an IV dripping into him, but he is awake and aware. He is no longer in an altered state. Neither am I. I see Mulder. I *see* Mulder. I see that I have withheld my love from him and starved his soul. I see that Skinner has done the same. And we have both been punished and injured by our sin of omission.

We approach his bed. What must he think, seeing us hand in hand, eyes and noses red? He reaches out toward us with his right hand, so thin, so frail. Skinner again takes his hand, and I add mine. Now we are linked: Skinner to Mulder to me to Skinner. I see in Mulder's eyes, by the welcoming expression on his face, that he is unsurprised by our arrival. I remember what a brilliant profiler he is, and realize that none of my words, none of Skinner's words, will surprise him. This realization gives me courage.

I bend down and kiss Mulder's cheek, and I tell him the truth; I tell him his truth. I love you, Mulder. I love you. Do you remember the motel room in Oregon, where you checked the marks on my back and told me they were only mosquito bites? I've loved you from that moment. Even when I'm angry with you, I love you. You complete me.

He kisses my hand, and smiles gently.

Skinner clears his throat, and Mulder's eyes move to him. I start to pull away, but both men hold me there. Skinner says to me, I want you to hear this. Then he looks at Mulder again and says, I never told you how I felt either, Fox. I failed you. I've failed you so many times. But it's your right to know, to despise me, perhaps, but you need to know. I love you, Fox. I've loved you since I first met you, back at the academy. Then it was because you were brilliant and beautiful; you still are. But now it's because I know what kind of person you are. The kind of person I want to be but never will. I love you, Fox. You must get well and return to work so you can remind me of what I should be. I need you, Fox. I love you.

Mulder kisses Skinner's hand, and smiles gently.

In a voice weak from unuse and exhaustion, he speaks to us. He tells me that he knows I love him, and that he forgives me for not speaking of my love. He knows that our love isn't easily categorized and he knows that's why I have been so shy, so unwilling, to acknowledge it. He thanks me for finally telling him. He tells me that my love nourishes him and gives him strength.

Then he looks at Skinner and I see immediately that his love for Skinner can be categorized. I see that he does love Skinner and has loved him very much for a very long time. For a moment, Mulder doesn't speak. Then he says, I remember you from the academy, too. You gave a talk on interrogation. I admired you so much, and wanted to be like you. I was pleased when I was finally moved into your division. I respect you, and I love you. I love you.

I drop my eyes as he says this; it is too personal for me to hear. I listen instead to his soft New England accent. I listen to the silences between the words, and I listen to Skinner listening. I listen to my heart. It's telling me that life is only worth living when you love and are loved in return. I have denied this fact; I have denied myself; I have denied Mulder. I vow never to make this mistake again.

I realize that both men are silent now. Mulder shakes my hand a bit, and I raise my eyes. He says, I'm tired now. Please stay with me while I sleep. I kiss him again and go to find some chairs. I leave Skinner with him. I don't watch them, but I can imagine them. I imagine Skinner bending over to kiss Mulder's hand. I imagine Mulder stroking his face, then sitting up a little so they can kiss. I imagine them with their heads together, just together.

In another week, the serial killer is caught. He kills no more. Mulder's profile had been amazingly accurate; the police used it to catch the man. Before we had been removed from Indianapolis, Mulder had added to his profile that the killer would work in hardware, specializing in farm implements, and that he would be active in clubs, possibly the Kiwanis or Chamber of Commerce. It was the Chamber of Commerce. When asked how he knew this, Mulder said: All our behavior leaves traces. I just examine these traces and the behavior is revealed.

All our behavior leaves traces. When I examine my behavior, I see that I was running away from the strength of my feelings, from my fear of dependency. Mulder knew. He had known all along. But my refusal to acknowledge my feelings, to share them, to admit them, was starving him as surely as if I were withholding food from him, was asphyxiating him as surely as if I had placed a pillow over his sleeping face.

All our behavior leaves traces. Skinner, too, withheld admission of his feelings, for fear of ridicule or disgust. Theirs is a more difficult love than mine. But to deny love is to deny life. Skinner was dying as surely as Mulder.

As a pathologist, I am accustomed to death. I do not fear death. In some regards, I welcome it, for death is comprehensible to me. What I fear is life: the chaos, the confusion, the pain. Loving Mulder is difficult. Loving Skinner is, in some ways, even more difficult. But I have made my choice, now; after almost killing my brother, I have made my choice. I move toward the chaos and, if I still cannot welcome it, I at least do not flee it. I will live, and to do so, I must love.


End file.
